And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
                            Billy Joel
 
 
 

February 6
Sunday, 4.00pm

Murphy picked up the last paper, checked the number on it and slotted
it into the right space in the file. He signed the cover sheet just
as Anson and Taggart came into the office. Taggart went straight to
his desk but Anson paused, tossing a glance into the corridor to make
sure it was empty.

"Well?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow, put the file on top of a larger one and
came to his feet. "Nothing yet."

"Jesus, Murph, what do you mean, nothing yet? It's been a week! How
long can it take?"

"Calm down, mate," Taggart grunted.

"It's alright for you," Anson said over his shoulder, "you and Doyle
weren't exactly mates."

"And therefore I shouldn't give a damn if they don't find his body
till spring? Is that what you're saying?"

Anson shook his head, "No, of course not. I mean…" he shook his head
again, glancing at Murphy in something of a plea. "I mean… we have to
do something. We have to…"

"Say goodbye?" Taggart added without moving.

"Yeah," Anson breathed.

"And that's hard to do without a body to bury."

Anson frowned. "It's not just that. Murphy, you know what I mean."

Murphy picked up his file and nodded. "Yeah, I know." He headed for
the door but one last question from Taggart made him pause.

"You know we've been on this damn case all week. Tell me, how's Bodie
doing?"

With his gaze on the corridor and Cowley's door a few feet away,
Murphy could only shrug. "No idea."

"We do need to do something, Murph," Anson added. "Tell the Old Man,
will you?"

Murphy sighed but said nothing more. He headed towards Cowley's
office and knocked. A word from within and he opened the door.

"Is that the report?" Cowley looked up with a deep frown, his glasses
perched on the edge of his nose as they usually did when the CI5
Controller got too tired to notice.

"Yes, sir. As complete as it can be at this stage."

"Well, sit you down while I take a look."

Cowley opened the file with a shred of impatience, sifting through
the paper without taking time to read Murphy's summary. Murphy sat in
the uncomfortable chair and openly wished to be anywhere else.
Anywhere but back up north. That had been hard enough once already.

He'd not been able to get within fifty miles of the mountain where
Doyle had been killed. For the last week, blizzards had swept central
Scotland cutting off huge sections of the country. Roads were
impassable, lakes frozen, services suspended. The pundits were
already calling it one of the worst winters in recorded history.

And that was the one Doyle had chosen to go skiing in.

It had taken Murphy two days to get from Glasgow to the mountains -
and still not close enough to where Doyle had died. He'd spent hours
questioning the Search and Rescue men, gleaning their candid opinion
of the conditions and finding out every detail of their attempts at
rescue and recovery. Five attempts had been made to go back but each
had failed due to a bad turn in the weather. The Commander of the
area had now put a moratorium on any further attempts until the
blizzards died down - now not expected for another five days. By that
time, the sky might have dumped another fifty foot of snow and any
hope of finding Doyle and the other two men before it melted would be
gone.

"And how is Sam Cocrane doing?"

Cowley's voice dragged Murphy back from his thoughts. "Not too bad,
considering. He only spent one night on the mountain and he managed
not to lose his backpack in the fall. He's an experienced mountain
man and had survival equipment with him. However, having heard his
story first hand, I'd say his survival was due more to luck than
anything else. He's got a few broken bones and some internal injuries
but the cold slowed his metabolism down and basically saved his
life."

"A lucky man indeed. And he saw Doyle and the others go under the
snow?"

"Yes, sir. They'd climbed the mountain early in the morning with the
intention of skiing down to the valley and then staying in an old
bothy the S&R people keep stocked with fuel and emergency supplies.
Cocrane does this kind of thing every year. Both the Highlands and
Cairngorms are scattered with these shelters. I've stayed in them
myself, when I've gone climbing in the summer."

Cowley put the file down and took off his glasses. He lifted a hand
to rub the bridge of his nose. "Go on."

"Well, Cocrane took the group out before dawn and they reached the
summit at around 1pm. Cocrane knew they were pressed for time so he
insisted they not stick around for more than a quick photo. He
pointed out the route they would ski down and warned them that they'd
have to do it in stages as there are some sheer cliff faces which cut
off the longer slopes. He went down each section first to lay a
trail. Then he'd wait for them to join him. He'd completed the second
section when the avalanche began. He was actually watching the slope
above when the snow began to move. He saw the three men in a line,
then lost all three in the whiteout. He realized he was going to be
next and launched off at a tangent in an effort to miss the worst. He
said he was moving all of ten seconds before his legs were knocked
out from under him. He doesn't remember too much after that until it
was dark. He was injured but not buried. He had a radio with him but
it took some time before he got a call through for help. Search and
Rescue arrived about an hour after sunrise but Cocrane was
unconscious by that point. They got him out by helicopter and as you
know, three hours later, the weather closed in and nobody's been able
to get near the mountain since."

Cowley closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He was silent a
long time but then he picked up his glasses again and glanced down at
the file. "You've done a good job on this, 6.2. I appreciate how
difficult it must have been."

Difficult? Going all the way up there to do what amounted to an
inquest on the death of a good friend? A man he'd known for almost
six years? No, that wasn't difficult - coming back without a body was
difficult. Knowing he would have to explain it all to Bodie was
difficult.

And what to do about the photo, eh? Give it to Cowley to stick in his
file - or keep it and give it to Bodie when he thought the moment was
right. How long would it be before Bodie could face looking at a
picture of Doyle on top of the mountain that killed him, mere minutes
before he died?

How Cocrane's camera had survived could be described as something of
a miracle. More so was the fact that of the eleven photos on the
roll, only the one of Doyle had survived in tact. Murphy had had the
film developed more as an adjunct to the inquiry. He'd not expected
to find the only result to be a smiling Doyle surrounded by white and
grey, enjoying his last of life.

Murphy frowned and shook his head. As usual, he kept his silence,
knowing Cowley didn't want to know how he felt, what he was thinking.
Death on this job was a daily risk - but simply because of that,
everyone got to believing that when they were away, on holiday or
something, they were immune to danger.

Strangely, a memory came to him from years ago. One day in the first
weeks after he'd joined CI5. He'd met up with Doyle and they'd gone
for a drink somewhere. Halfway through the evening, Murphy had
explained how his mother didn't like the idea of him belonging to
such a violence-loving squad, taking the opinion that if a policeman
carried a gun he could expect to get shot at. Doyle had taken the
comments seriously and replied that sure, the job was dangerous - but
any of them, gun-carrying or not, could go out their front doors
tomorrow and get hit by a bus.

Murphy's mother had not been impressed by such advice.

A glass appeared on the desk before him, a familiar amber fluid
splashed into its depths. Murphy hadn't even noticed Cowley had
moved. Without speaking, he collected the glass and downed the whisky
in one swallow.

"Aye, I thought you might need that." Cowley took his own glass back
around to his chair. "Have you spoken to Bodie since you got back
last night?"

"Only to let him know they've not found Doyle's body."

"How was he?"

"Okay I guess - though it was a good thing I didn't expect anything
more than monosyllables from him."

"No more than anybody else has had from him. Doctor Ross has observed
him from a distance."

"And?"

"She's worried - as am I. Bodie has always been one to get things
like this off his chest. But not this time. I've had someone watching
his place since the news came in but Bodie has not left his flat in a
week. Susan took pity on him and took him some groceries. She stopped
by yesterday to see him but he'd hardly touched them. She also said
he'd lost weight and obviously hadn't been sleeping."

Murphy frowned and put his glass back on the desk. "So what can we
do?"

"About the only thing we can do. We have to end this, here and now.
Bodie has to have a line drawn for him. If not, he'll go under. He's
too tough a character to allow any of us close enough to drag him to
safety. I'm afraid it's only at times like this that we begin to
appreciate just how much partners rely on each other."

"You mean, if Doyle was alive, he wouldn't let Bodie do this?"

"Exactly - and no, the irony hasn't escaped me, either. No," Cowley
rose to his feet and turned to the window, "we need an end and we
need it now. I have organized a memorial service for next week.
Hopefully by then we might have Doyle's body - but if not, we'll have
the service anyway. We all need that line drawn, 6.2."

"Yes sir."

When Cowley said nothing more, Murphy rose to his feet and headed for
the door. Kathy was waiting for him at home, but he really had to go
and see Bodie. Somebody had to try.
 

6.20pm

The flat was a mess - at least, outside it was. Boxes and bags piled
up along the landing, organized and chaotic at the same time. Murphy
carefully picked his way through it all to find Bodie's front door
open.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

The man suddenly appeared with another box in his arms and Murphy had
to press himself up against the wall to get out of the way. Bodie
dumped the box down and went back inside. Murphy followed.

Yes, the flat was a mess inside as well. Paper was strewn everywhere,
bits and pieces pushed under things, the table turned on its side to
make way. The sofa was pulled out from the wall and two of the
pictures which normally hung above the fireplace were standing
against the wall. The kitchen was about the only room untouched - but
even there, cups and glasses were stacked high, unwashed. Notably
absent were plates or any other sign that Bodie had been eating.

Murphy gingerly stepped among the debris to find Bodie rummaging
through a wardrobe in the bedroom, totally immune to Murphy's
presence. "What are you doing?"

"Nothin'."

Murphy nodded, glancing around. "Lotta mess for nothing."

"Cleaning."

"But that's supposed to reduce mess, not increase it."

Bodie appeared, stuffing things into a plastic bag. He didn't so much
as glance in Murphy's direction. His face was pale, his eyes feverish
and bright against dark shadows beneath. His lips were pursed in a
thin line as though concentration on the task at hand were the only
thing he was interested in. Murphy was about as important as a lamp
stand.

Bodie wore a thin sweater with holes at the elbows and stomped around
barefoot in jeans ripped at the knees. The heating was blaring but
all the windows were open, curtains knotted up and out of the way.
There were no sheets on the bed and only a single pillow sat in the
middle of the mattress. Murphy could see no signs of blankets.

"Are you moving out?"

Bodie didn't respond, only pushing past him to the hall cupboard.

"Bodie? Are you moving out?" Murphy trailed behind him. This was what
he'd feared most. "Bodie, answer me!"

At that, Bodie stopped, dropped the bag and turned to face him. The
tone was level though without any form of expression. Unfortunately,
the same could not be said of the man's face. It teetered between
bored apathy and ragged desperation. Bodie was walking close to the
edge - and he knew it. "Look, Murphy, I've had to put up with the
whole of CI5 traipsing in here over the last week, all offering their
sympathies as though that was going to change anything. Doyle's dead,
okay? So can we just leave it?"

"No." Murphy didn't move. Instead, he blocked Bodie's passage back to
the door. "I want to talk to you."

"Why? Found Doyle's body yet?"

"No."

"Then we've nothing to talk about, have we."

"Don't you want to know how it happened?"

"I know how it happened." Bodie turned back to the cupboard,
dismissing Murphy. "Doyle ran away and died. End of story."

As Bodie began hauling things off the upper shelves, Murphy frowned,
"What do you mean, Doyle ran away?"

No answer.

"Bodie?" Murphy began, softer this time, daring the other man to
respond. He reached out and touched his arm - and Bodie threw him off
with a savagery that sent Murphy up against the opposite wall. The
moment Murphy's hands were off him, Bodie turned and resumed his
work, hands trembling as each article was retrieved from the shelves,
examined and replaced in a different spot.

"C'mon, Bodie," Murphy tried again, keeping his distance and his
voice quiet.

"Leave me alone."

"You need to talk."

Bodie kept working, picking up things he'd already looked at. "Oh?
And you're prepared to listen are you? Just like everybody else who's
been here? Asking how I feel? Not wanting to know the answer? Sure,
who does? I mean, we live a dangerous life. Any day we could get shot
or knifed or blown up - so we don't talk about it, do we? Because the
moment we start thinking about fear, and forming it into words, we
make it real and if we did that, none of us would be able to do our
jobs any more. So tell me, Murph, do you really want to know how I
feel or are you just like everyone else? You just want to hear the
clean version?"

Lifting his chin, Murphy replied steadily, "What's the clean
version?"

"I feel fine." Clipped, hard, brittle.

Murphy swallowed, "Then, yes, I really do want to know how you feel."

Bodie said nothing for a moment, but began shoving things back into
the cupboard with a barely contained violence, the tremor in his
hands now transferring to his voice. "Doyle ran away from me. I did
something and he ran away to Scotland and got killed in an accident."

Silence reigned for some seconds before Murphy ventured another
question. "So you think Ray's death is your fault? What did you do?"

Bodie stopped abruptly, pulling air into his lungs. Then he turned
swiftly and headed for the bathroom, but the answer floated after him
like a shadow of accusation. "I lied to him."
 

February 13.
Sunday, 4.40pm

He'd had to get the spare keys from Central because he couldn't find
the set Doyle had given him when he'd moved in here after he got out
of hospital. Cowley had organized a nice open, spacious first floor
flat without too many stairs because he knew that it would take Doyle
a long time to get his fitness back and much of that time would be
spent inside, in this place.

Of course, Ray had gone off the deep end with boredom. When they'd
operated on him to remove the bullets, they'd cracked his ribs and
the muscle damage alone was enough to keep him immobile - so any kind
of exercise was almost impossible. Physiotherapy was the only thing
left to him, but even that, in the first weeks had been an agony of
almost indomitable proportions.

Bodie remembered. He'd been there, helped when he could, offered
support when he couldn't. Most of all, he'd simply been there.

The front door stuck a little as he turned the key. He put his toe
against the bottom and pressed and with a groan of complaint, the
door opened. The air beyond was cold and a little damp. Two weeks
without heating in the middle of winter was usually all it took in a
building of this age.

He turned directly into the kitchen, knowing he was looking for
something that couldn't be there. Doyle and his cooking. All that
veggie stuff, some quite unimaginable, almost as bad a some of the
things Bodie had been forced to consume in Africa, though Doyle's
stuff tasted better. Doyle had never quite understood why Bodie
insisted on the luxury of junk food, as though having been deprived
of it for so many years wouldn't make him appreciate it all the more.

He opened the fridge. Instantly the smell assailed him and he shut
the door again. Do that last. For now, leave everything in there -
the stink along with it. Empty it later and take the bag out as he
left.

The sink had dishes in it, unwashed but rinsed. He couldn't see any
dust on the counter surfaces but it was so dark already, that didn't
mean there wasn't any there. Resisting the need to switch lights on,
Bodie picked up a knife and placed it with the dishes. Do those
later, too. Leave the easy stuff till last.

No. He wasn't here. Even in the darkness, shades of streetlight
bleeding through the windows, there was nothing in this room to
suggest Doyle had just popped out for a moment. It looked like he was
never coming back.

He left the kitchen. The living room in this place was wide and
square, with two bay windows along the street wall. The curtains were
pulled and fat patches of light gave the carpet an unusual pattern.
He switched on a lamp, low enough not to glare, bright enough for him
to see where he was going. At least, in this room.

Doyle had cleaned before going to Scotland. He'd at least thought to
do that much. But when had he done it? Between fighting off Bodie's
advances and flying up to Scotland? Or before that, before he
realized his life was about to change forever, permanently?

Everything was as he remembered. The Da Vinci print above the
fireplace, the twin sofas opposite, no coffee table between them, but
a rough antique three legged ledge perched to the left of Doyle's
favourite corner seat. A coffee mug ring was clearly visible from
where he stood, yet to be wiped up.

The bookcase on his right drew his gaze. Tall and crammed with tomes
both weighty and light. Bodie touched none of them. His fingers would
have burned.

On he went, down the short passage to the bathroom door. He switched
on the light here, but Doyle had removed most of his toiletries for
his trip north. Only the remnants of a tube of toothpaste and half a
stub of soap lay where he could easily see it. Without thinking,
Bodie picked up the dried soap and breathed in the familiar scent.
Instantly, sharp pain stabbed down his throat to his stomach and he
dropped the thing like it was poison.

Leaving the bathroom behind, he didn't hesitate when he should have
and found himself crossing the threshold of the bedroom. Here the
curtains were drawn but light from the hallway drew a sharp rectangle
across the floor, bed and onto the wall opposite. Bodie stopped.

There on the floor before him, crumpled and trodden on as though from
distaste, was the shirt Doyle had worn to dinner at Bodie's place.
Discarded on the return home, Doyle would have flung it off, perhaps
had a shower to wash away the touch of Bodie on his flesh. Then, busy
with packing, Doyle would have walked all over it, back and forth,
every time he'd entered this room.

There was nothing else lying on the floor. Other than that, the
bedroom was spotlessly tidy. Only the shirt had suffered.

Bodie stepped over it and sat on the edge of the bed, studying the
faint sheen of cloth in the distant light. His body bent forward, his
fingers collected it, lifting it from its graveyard, felt the small
neat buttons, the softness of the fabric.

He remembered that softness when Doyle had last worn it. A deceptive
softness that had covered the hard muscles of Doyle's chest and back.
He remembered touching the cloth, touching the skin, touching Doyle
and suddenly he couldn't breathe any more. His throat constricted so
tight, he was in danger of suffocating. He left the shirt draped over
his knees and, blank and empty, he buried his face in his hands.

For long minutes he just sat there, forcing air into himself, almost
wishing he could deliberately fail, for each breath only hardened the
pain, sharpened it, brought it back to life, fed it and harvested it.
The produce of love, the crops of failure, the fruits of guilt.

"Bodie?"

The whispered word brushed against his awareness but he didn't look
up. He knew who it was but for the life of him, this one time in his
life, he couldn't summon the strength to hide what he was feeling.

Kathy remained by the door for some seconds before coming to kneel
before him. Wisely she didn't lay a comforting hand on him. She just
waited, allowing her patient presence to filter through his despair.
Then, before the silence could drag, she spoke, softly and evenly,
"Michael told me you might come here tonight. He was worried about
you. He would have come himself but he got called on duty. Even so, I
wanted to come instead. I loved Ray, too."

Swallowing hard, Bodie shook his head within his hands, unable to
look at her, to acknowledge what she'd said. She was a treasure, this
one, a woman Murphy was obviously determined to keep hold of and with
very good reason. People like Kathy were hard to find.

"Sorry, Kath," Bodie finally found words, but hardly had the voice to
speak them, "but I just can't do this."

Now she did touch him, gently, a few fingers on his forearm. Not
enough to be demanding or threatening, just enough to be real, close.
"What can't you do, Bodie?"

"This. Here. Goin' through his stuff, sorting it out, getting rid of
it. Pulling his existence apart piece by piece. I can't do it."

He felt her hands on his, pulling just enough to free them from his
face, making him look at her, at the compassion in her lovely eyes,
at the absence of pity, and instead, the presence of shared grief.
Yes, she had loved Doyle. They'd known each other from his days in
the Met and in fact, had been responsible for her and Murphy meeting.
She was hurting too.

Faintly, Bodie reached out and pressed fingers to her cheek, an
acknowledgment, no more.

"Bodie, you don't have to do anything. His things can wait. Cowley
won't do anything for a couple of weeks at least. He's not quite as
insensitive as you boys make out, you know." This was ended with the
suggestion of a smile which Bodie tried to mirror. Then she was
reading his gaze steadily, strong and determined but not threatening.
With surprise, Bodie felt a brush of the same safety he'd always felt
in Doyle's presence. "Tell me what happened, Bodie. Tell me why Ray
ran away."

Mesmerised and caught by the simple directness of the question, Bodie
released one single band of steel strapped across the inside of his
chest; he told the truth. "I kissed him."

Amazingly, Kathy didn't so much as bat a single eyelid. "And then he
ran?"

"No." Bodie swallowed again, moistening his mouth. Her quiet, her
strength and peacefulness were hypnotic and he willingly followed
along. "I tried to seduce him."

"Tried?"

"Nearly succeeded."

"He didn't stop you?"

"Not in the beginning. He never even tried. It was incredible."

"How?"

"I let him think about it and he decided pretty quickly. Then he was
as involved with it as me. I mean, he wanted me too and I felt
so…good…  And then…"

"Then?"

"We were in the middle of… Well, we were…"

"And he ran?"

"Yeah. Just got up, threw his clothes back on and ran out. I couldn't
stop him. I never saw him again. At six the next morning, he got on a
plane for Scotland and was dead three days later. I sent him up
there, Kath. I killed him."

There.

He'd said it out loud at last.

Now he did feel better.

At least, he should be feeling better -

but the air suddenly choked in his lungs. "Dear God!"

And then Kathy was holding him tight, smoothing his hair, staying
with him as dry sobs racked his body, ignoring his useless attempts
at control. But he didn't cry. Not a single tear.

And he never would. Never give himself that release, that
forgiveness. That was his life sentence. Life without Doyle, life
without tears. He would kill one as efficiently and completely as the
other.

Kathy rose and sat on the bed beside him, not letting go and not
giving him pathetic platitudes about how one day he wouldn't feel so
bad and how it wasn't really his fault. This woman had the sense to
avoid such drivel, instead relying on the one thing Bodie could
trust; silence.

Eventually, he shifted and put his arms around her instead, drawing
her back to greater comfort on the bed. Showing more wisdom than he
would have given anyone credit for, she made no move to stop him,
simply allowing him to wrap his arms around her and remain there in
companionable quiet.

With her head on his chest, Bodie gazed up at the ceiling above,
keeping himself very aware that this was Ray's bed they were lying
on, this was his room, his flat, his sheets. The soft feminine body
felt nothing like Ray, but Kathy was alive and here with him now. He
held her and for a few brief, lovely minutes, allowed himself to
imagine what it would have been like to simply lie like this with
Ray. Without sex, without lust and passion - but simply with love and
companionship.

Yes, he had made a mistake. A big mistake. He'd fallen in love. He'd
placed his own wants and desires ahead of Ray's, giving him only a
few moments to make a decision which would affect the rest of his
life - after it was already too late.

And that was why he'd run away, wasn't it? Because he'd gone along
with it to please Bodie, because Bodie had already shown how much he
wanted it. Ray had always cared for him. He should have known Doyle
would do that, no matter how much the idea repulsed him. He went
along with it until he couldn't stomach it any more.

Then he'd run away. Far away where he wouldn't have to look at Bodie
any more.

"Kathy?"

"Yes?"

"You gonna marry Murph?"

"Probably."

"Pity." Gentle laughter against his chest brought the shadow of a
smile to his face. "You're too good for him, you know."

"I hope not."

Bodie paused only a second, "Doyle was too good for me."

"You really believe that?" came the soft response.

"Never would have worked. We're both Alpha males. We'd have done
nothing but fight all the time."

"You managed to build a friendship without fighting. Why couldn't you
have built a love?"

Bodie almost laughed but instead opted for pressing a brief kiss on
the top of her head. "Because Ray would never have loved me. Not like
that. And love is not something I can give to anyone."

He paused before speaking again, venturing the question with more
than a little care. "Are you shocked? About me and Ray?"

Her head moved on his chest, "No. Not at all. And I won't tell
Michael. I won't even tell him about tonight, if  you don't want me
to."

Bodie thought for a moment, then sighed, "No, you go ahead and tell
him. I don't want him finding out by accident and then you getting
into trouble for helping me."

Kathy said nothing, then carefully moving his arms so she could see
his face, she replied, "Come on, let's get out of here and I'll buy
you dinner. By the look of you, you haven't eaten for the last two
weeks and I won't have you fainting away and ruining that beautiful
face of yours."

Slowly, Bodie nodded, almost smiling. He kissed her forehead and let
her get up. He stood and went to move - but noticed the shirt lying
on the bed. He picked it up and tossed it in the corner before taking
Kathy's hand and leading her out of the flat.
 

*****
 

February 15.
Tuesday, 11.15pm

One of the streetlights outside Bodie's flat was ready to flicker its
last night. Every now and then, Bodie would watch as Murphy's gaze
drew to the window. Illumination drew square shadows on the building
opposite, gaping holes, wet with drizzle, slick and ghostlike. Every
now and then, the light would blink off and plunge the living room
into darkness.

They sat on the floor, side by side against the wall; the last of a
bottle of vodka stranded between them. Bodie hadn't wanted to drink
but Murphy had given him enough gentle encouragement. It was okay
really; Murphy missed Doyle too.

Something of a wind had sprung up some time after sunset. As though a
warning of the world outside, it splashed a fist full of rain against
the window but the sound was more like sand against the glass.

Bodie brought a knee up and rested his elbow on it, throwing a glance
towards Murphy. "The Old Man wants you to stick with me, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. What else did you expect?"

"I know the drill."

"Sorry."

"Yeah."

Silence enveloped them again as it had done for long periods since
their return from the memorial service. People had spoken to him in
the church but now he could hardly remember what any of them had
said. He could remember Kathy holding back tears and Cowley
grim-faced, speaking of how CI5 had valued the man now lost. But now,
hours after everyone had gone home, there was just the silence.

Bodie had never been much of a one for quiet - but the years with
Doyle had taught him how to do that too and he'd realized that
silence wasn't so bad when shared with somebody else who understood
it. Murphy was good like that. Only talking when the situation
required it.

The man beside him shifted, his gaze resting on the aberrant
streetlight once more. It was their only source of illumination;
Bodie found a little comfort in the darkness.

"I'm gonna miss him," Murphy began quietly as though the thought had
just occurred to him. "He was good company. Good backup. Good on
birthdays."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bodie could see a faint smile flash
across Murphy's face. Bodie couldn't manage one. That night had too
many painful memories. Harsh words, regretted in daylight. Doyle had
wanted to talk the next day but Bodie had shut him out, pretending
nothing was wrong, proving that what Doyle had said was true.

"You know," Murphy continued, "he was the first mate I had in CI5.
The first one who bothered to talk to me like I was a human being and
not some hopeless rookie. Susan had a terrible crush on him for more
than a year."

"Yeah?" Bodie murmured, vaguely amused.

"Yeah. She did think about asking him out once but at that stage, she
was too afraid Cowley would find out and sack her. She didn't have as
much confidence then as she does now. I guess none of us realized
just how damn good she'd end up being."

"She is that."

Murphy let out a loud breath, "Remember Wakefield?"

"Yeah." Remember? How could he ever forget? Nearly getting blown up
in that caravan. And the day before, making a phone call at his flat
- and the unpleasant sight of some unnecessary plastic on the top of
his phone. Doyle had been so casual. Deftly taking the phone apart
while Bodie's finger stayed firmly in the dial. Keeping up a light
conversation as Doyle cut and removed the detonator. All done with a
minimum of fuss, a light smile, green eyes full of gentle mischief.
Never would have known from that steady gaze that he held both their
lives in his nimble hands. "Yeah, I remember. Nearly killed us both."

"He told me you gave him a real fright."

Bodie said nothing but turned his gaze on Murphy.

"That bomb in the ruined warehouse. You were knocked out and for a
moment, he thought you were dead."

Bodie closed his eyes. "He told you that did he?" Yeah, told Murphy -
not Bodie, his own partner. His best friend. "Look, Murph, I'm sorry,
but I'm just not in the mood to reminisce about Doyle. I can't. I
can't think. Don't wanna laugh about it yet. Can't remember how.
Okay?"

"Sure."

"Sorry."

"S'okay."

They fell silent again but the emptiness wasn't quite so easy this
time, as though they'd opened Pandora's box and neither could quite
decide to close it up again.

"Tell me," Murphy said eventually. "If they don't find the body until
spring, how will you handle it?"

Bodie shook his head. "Dunno. Wait and see, I suppose. What about
you?"

"Dunno either. Not sure I'd want to look at it by then."

Another long silence, this time leaving Bodie unsettled. "Murph?"

"Yeah?"

"You said…" Numbness made the words thud to a halt in his throat but
he forced himself to continue. This was important. "The other day,
when Kathy told you… about me and Doyle… well, you said you couldn't
see how it was my fault."

Murphy didn't turn to look at him, "Well, I can tell you that if it
was you up on that mountain and Ray back here mourning you - he'd be
blaming himself."

"And?"

"And he'd be wrong, too."

"Why?"

Bodie could feel rather than see the shrug of the shoulders next to
him. "That night when you told him how you felt, you are sure he felt
the same? Or something close?"

"I thought so, for a while."

Murphy grunted, "Until he got up and left you without a word of
explanation. Jesus, Bodie, you didn't tell him to go to Scotland.
That was his choice - just as you didn't tell him to run away. If he
didn't like the way you felt, he could have just told you - or even
hit you if he was angry enough. We both know he's done that before."

Something vaguely resembling a laugh coughed out of Bodie's throat.
"I actually thought he would that night, too, you know. I couldn't
believe it when I saw he wanted the same as me. I mean, for a minute
there, it was…" Too wonderful, like everything he'd ever wanted in
his whole life.

He broke off, no longer able to find the breath to talk about it. At
moments like this, it almost felt like Doyle was there, in the room
with him - and Bodie didn't believe in ghosts.

"Hey," Murphy was looking at him, nudging him gently with an elbow.
"You okay?"

Bodie took a second, then nodded, "Will be when I get this half ton
of lead off me chest. Dunno how people are supposed to live with this
kind of shit. Never had any trouble dealing with it before."

"You never lost Doyle before."

"No. On the bright side, I won't have to do it again."

No - but he had almost lost Doyle before. Three years ago. Bullets
and scars, months in rehab, occasional nightmares. Words floated to
him in the darkness. Doyle's voice, deep and husky, shocking and yet
accepting on a level Bodie had never fully understood until now.
Something about having died once and how it would be easier next
time.

Easier for Doyle, maybe.

"Bodie," Murphy's voice stole across his thoughts. "I don't want to
begin to guess what was in Ray's mind that night he left you. What I
can tell you is what I saw with my own eyes. You two were together a
long time - and partners don't last in this business unless there is
something very much like love between them. Perhaps not on the level
you were talking about, but definitely there. There was always a part
of Doyle that was attached to you, like an anchor - and that part
loved you. Even if there was never anything else, that much needs -
deserves - to be remembered. Five years demand you remember."

Half a smile creased Bodie's face and he nodded, "Soul of a poet,
you, mate."

"Yeah," Murphy drew the word out long and tired. Then he shifted and
reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out an envelope, took Bodie's
hand and placed it inside. "I'm going home. I know Cowley's orders
are for me to stay but you've been bugged with people since word
about Doyle first arrived. I think you need some time alone. I'm glad
to see you've cleaned the place up, too."

Using Bodie's knee as a lever, Murphy got to his feet and stood
looking down at him. With half a gesture at the envelope, he added,
"You put the light on and take a look at that when I'm gone. I'll
leave you in peace - but if you want me to come back, or Kathy, you
only have to call. I'm five minutes away, okay?"

Relief and fear tumbled together inside Bodie but he just nodded.
"Thanks, Murph."

"Call me tomorrow and we'll get our stories straight for the Cow."

"Yeah. 'Night."

Murphy turned and made for the door. In the darkness, he disappeared
quickly, leaving only the click of locks in his wake. For long
minutes, Bodie sat on the floor in the shadows, his eyes on the
envelope. Was it a letter from Ray? Some after-death message Murphy
had been entrusted with? Did he really want to read it?

Gingerly, he pressed his fingers along the smooth surface, trying to
guess the contents - but it was useless. Well, he could at least open
it up and see whether it was hand-written or typed.

With a lunge, he leaned over and flicked on the lamp and squinted in
the sudden light, though it was soft. Only then did he peel back the
flap and looked inside the envelope.

Not a letter. A photo.

He drew it out, unconsciously turning it towards the light to see -

Ray.

A flat mountaintop glowered upon by low hasty clouds. In the
distance, more peaks of light and shadow, snow as far as the eye
could see. Doyle in the middle of the shot, ski poles in each hand,
blue padded trousers and green parka, scarf wrapped around his neck,
hands covered in gloves. Hair tousled by the wind, a strand sneaking
across his forehead, the rest leaving his face clear for the photo. A
smile, wide, showing off the chipped tooth, pulling a mild shadow
across the damaged cheekbone. The green eyes, clear in the shot, so
very green and missing the smile on the rest of the face.

Bodie glanced away for a moment, then looked back just in case it was
his imagination.

No. There was no smile in those eyes. Doyle hadn't even left him that
much.

"God, I'm sorry, Ray," Bodie breathed into the mountain air. "I
should have just told you I loved you."
 

February 18.
Friday, 8.35am

Bodie was up, dressed and ready by the time Murphy knocked on the
door. He'd also washed the dishes, put a load of clothes in the
machine and taken the rubbish out. Crisp and new. All of it.

He knew he'd looked a bit crazed when he'd cleaned all that stuff out
of the flat - and admittedly, he'd taken a substantial amount of it
back once he'd calmed down a little. But all the same, the burning
need to clear his life of so much junk had been overwhelming - even
though he knew that deep down, what he was trying to do was clear his
mind of the pain.

But today was the day and he was ready. Murphy looked a little
surprised when Bodie met him at the door but offered up a smile of
encouragement before leading him back down the steps to the car.
They'd been on the road ten minutes before either of them said a
word.

Yeah, Murph was good with the silence thing. Perhaps a bit too good.

Bodie cleared his throat but kept his gaze on the road ahead,
"Listen, mate, I wanna thank you for the last week or so. You've been
a good friend. Not too sure I deserved it."

Murphy shrugged, "Deserts had nothing to do with it, Bodie and you
know it. Blame Doyle if it makes you feel any better."

"Doyle? Why?"

His gaze lingering on his hands a moment, Murphy refocussed on the
road, "Doesn't matter. S'complicated."

"No, tell me."

The silence this time was full of a lot of things Bodie could only
guess at. Eventually, Murphy sighed, "I'm no kid, Bodie. I've been
around a bit - but I picked up a few points about friendship from you
and Doyle, okay? Just leave it at that."

"Okay. But I'm still sayin' thanks."

"Okay." Then Murphy grinned and Bodie nodded. Grins were still beyond
him.

Central carpark was only half-full when they arrived. Bodie got out
of the car and turned to Murphy. "I'll see you later. I need to go up
on my own."

"Sure." Murphy nodded and let him go.

Keeping his strides even and purposeful, Bodie reached the doorway
and stepped inside. The second's hesitation he felt was more
instinctive than anything else, but then he pushed past it and made
for the stairs. Never bothered with the lift any more. He reached the
second floor just as his watch ticked over three minutes to nine. He
waited there for two of them to pass then strode the last few steps
to Cowley's office where he knocked twice.

"Come in, Bodie."

On any other day, Bodie would have smiled. Instead, he pushed the
door open and waited before the desk. Cowley was writing, his gaze
shifting back and forth between two open files. Another glance, more
scrawl and still he said nothing. In the end, Bodie decided to take
the initiative.

"Sir, I…"

"No."

Bodie frowned. "What?"

"No."

Cowley still hadn't looked up and his writing continued undisturbed.
More than a little irritated, Bodie tried again. "I don't
understand."

"I'm sure you've heard the word no before - and from my lips, 3.7.
Are you telling me now after all these years, that you never
understood what it meant?"

"To what," Bodie replied, gritting his teeth, "does the word apply?"

Cowley paused long enough to turn a sheet of paper in one of the
files, then continued writing. "To the question you were about to ask
me. The answer is no. Dismissed."

Bodie had had about enough for one day. He stuck out his chin and
fought to keep his temper. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what
the hell it is you're talking about!" Bodie added, "Sir!"

Finally, Cowley stopped writing and glanced up over the rim of his
glasses, "No, Bodie, I will not accept your resignation. You will
return to duty as of midday, today. Dismissed."

Bodie met his gaze for another long moment, stunned speechless. When
he didn't move, Cowley rose menacingly to his feet, "Dismissed, 3.7!
Out! Now!"

Bodie backed out the door, shutting it behind him to find Murphy,
Anson and Jax staring at him from outside the restroom. Anson was
grinning and even Murphy managed a smile.

Jax, bless his soul, simply waved his hand, "C'mon, Bodie, tea's up."
 

February 21.
Monday, 3.18pm

As ambulance sirens wailed at the other end of the street, Bodie
leaned back against the lampost, rubbed his elbow and tried hard to
catch his breath. There would be a choice bruise there before the end
of the day. Fortunately, the knee was only twisted; walking had taken
away the worst of the pain - but they way he'd fallen from that
balcony he was lucky he hadn't broken the elbow. It had made the same
sort of crack his ankle had done years ago when he'd done that
parachute jump and got into trouble for breaking bones while
off-duty. Perhaps he should get an x-ray.

He gazed up at the smoke filled air, where particles of dust still
fell towards the ground, and struggled to get his thoughts in order,
straighten them out, make some kind of sense of them before anybody
asked. It was one thing for him to know he was in trouble - another
to go showing it around to anybody who looked into his wild eyes.

He stopped rubbing the elbow when he saw Cowley striding towards him,
Anson in his wake.

"Report, 3.7."

"Nothing much more than I told you before except Ricardo didn't have
the money. My guess is he'd already done the deal. The bomb was more
of a warning to anyone else who might cross the Sherringhams."

"Aye, and three people had to get injured to press the point. You
should have seen it coming, Bodie."

"Sir, I did get everyone out before it blew."

"And nearly blasted yourself sky-high too, according to Anson. I
don't want to hear you trying another trick like that balcony, 3.7,
or you might find yourself doing a long refresher with Macklin."

"And Towser?" Anson murmured, almost hopeful.

Cowley only favoured him with a baleful stare. "Very well, you two,
see to the clean-up here then back to Central. I want to know how the
Sherringhams planted that bomb without Ricardo knowing about it - and
I want to know where that money has gone."

"Yes, sir." Bodie said to Cowley's retreating back.

"You should get that elbow looked at."

Bodie glanced up to find Anson watching him. "You made your report
awful clean."

"So?"

Anson watched him for another moment then turned and headed back
towards the smoking ruin already roped off by the dozens of police
that had gathered in response to Bodie's call for the bomb squad. It
could have been worse - much worse - and those injured would recover
quickly.

Unlike some.

The question was, had Anson done him a favour? In not telling Cowley
what had really happened, was Bodie any better off? If it happened
again, Anson was sure to say - and then get them both into trouble
for not reporting it sooner.

No, Anson was giving him the benefit of the doubt - hoping that the
moment of sheer rage in which Bodie had nearly demolished the room
where the bomb had been hidden was a one-off. An anger at life's
recent jibes that simply needed a single expression and was gone
forever.

Only Bodie wasn't so sure. He'd felt it take over. Felt it simply
step inside him, his mind, his body ruled by something he couldn't
control - didn't even want to try.

He'd snapped. For ten minutes, his self-discipline had taken a
vacation and in the process, he'd torn a whole room to shreds with a
violence usually enjoyed only by those on hard and terrifying drugs.
Anson had only been able to stand back and watch.

Even now, half an hour later, tumbling emotions strangled together
inside him, each battling for dominance in a place no longer numb
with shock. If only he could be numb. Such a blanket of non-feeling
would seem like a heavenly release after today. Bloody lucky he
hadn't set the bomb off in the process or there wouldn't have been a
report to worry about, clean or otherwise. And Anson would have paid
the price.

He looked down at his hands. They were cut and scraped from his
tirade - but now rock steady.

Anson should have said something. Made Cowley understand why Bodie
had wanted to resign. This wasn't going to go away. Not in a few days
or weeks - and it would only be a matter of time before Bodie would
hurt somebody.

He began walking down the street, his hands thrust into his jacket
pockets.

Yeah, it was going to happen again, he knew. Happen every time he got
into something and realized that Doyle was no longer there, watching
his back. No longer there to fill the gaping void in the pit of his
stomach. Not there to make him laugh at himself, easing his tension
with a smug smile or the careless lift of a shoulder. There were too
many ways he could miss Doyle - and at work, he saw every one of them
from one minute to the next.

When Cowley had been so adamant about him staying, he'd been willing
to give it a try - but after three days, it was obvious, he'd been
right all along.

Now he just had to tell Cowley and get Anson to back him up - without
ever having to go near Kate Ross.

It took hours to clear the police, check the building, gather the
forensics reports and arrive back at Central. Cowley wasn't there.
He'd left in a hurry with his driver, some urgent business somewhere
- as usual. Bodie settled down with the files, ready to keep himself
busy until the Old Man returned. With any luck, this would be his
last day at CI5, the last time he had to sit in the office without
waiting for Ray to stick his head in the door. Odd that the mere
absence of something could bring about such dread.

Murphy dropped by after an hour or so - when Anson had ducked out to
get them some takeaway. It was well-dark outside as Murphy perched on
the edge of the desk.

"Heard you had a fun day."

Bodie nodded absently - then glanced up, his eyebrows raised, "Anson
tell you what happened?"

"Yep."

"All of it?"

"Yep."

"Ah."

"Yep."

Nothing more was said for a moment, then Bodie laid down his pen.
"Will you back me up? With Cowley?"

"How? By telling him what went on between you and Doyle before he
flew off to Scotland? Sure he'd sack you for that alone - but is that
really the way you want to go?"

Bodie stopped for a moment, hearing the ringing of a phone in
Cowley's office and latching onto the sound like a kind of mantra.
When he replied, his voice was low and full of every ounce of truth
he could muster after this afternoon. "I just want to go, Murph. You
know I don't want to be here any more. It's just too hard without
Ray. If Cowley doesn't let me go tonight, I'll leave anyway. I just
can't do the job any more. My mind's not on it. It's dangerous."

"Yeah."

The phone stopped ringing a moment - then began again. Murphy shifted
off the desk and turned to the filing cabinet.

"You think I'm wrong? That I'm being hasty?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what?"

Again the phone stopped ringing - and began again. Bodie frowned and
kept his concentration on Murphy as he pulled a file out of the
cabinet and sat behind his desk, ready to read it.

"Murph?"

The other man raised his eyes and locked onto Bodie's. He breathed
steadily, relaxing his hands flat on the desk. "I think if you want
to pay a penance, Bodie, you're going to do it whether we try and
stop you or not. And if you are, I'd rather you weren't out there
with a gun in your hand, doing the job. You're right, it's dangerous
- and not the way I would prefer to remember Doyle, or you." He
swallowed, "I don't want you to go, mate, but I will back you up with
Cowley if you need it."

"Thanks," Bodie breathed. The phone had gone quiet at last and he sat
back to finish off his report. Then the phone started again and in an
uncharacteristic gesture of frustration, Murphy sprang to his feet
and strode down the corridor. He shoved open Cowley's door and
disappeared from Bodie's view.

The ringing phone stopped.

Bodie got two more words written on his report when he heard Murphy's
voice.

"Bodie? Up and out!" Murphy was coming back, an irritated frown
creasing his brow. "That was Jax. Cowley wants you at Stanfield Base
an hour ago."

"Hell!" Bodie groaned. "What now?"

"He didn't say. Apparently Cowley had called him to tell you to get
over there.  Don't ask me."

"But it's on the other side of bloody London! I won't get home till
midnight!"

"Or dawn if you don't start now."

Grunting, Bodie tossed his file to one side and got to his feet.
Alright, perhaps one more day in CI5 - but no more after that. Enough
was enough.
 

10.50pm

Like most military bases, Stanfield was set apart from any centre of
civilisation, surrounded by fields of green and leafy trees - except
now, when it was black and cold and more like some icy reincarnation
of Valhalla. Bodie saw lights from a long way off, flickering between
the bare trees, signs of manned sentry posts and firing ranges. His
years in both army and SAS had shown him how important such things
were, his years outside had borne in him an impatience of them.

His ID got him past the first checkpoint and another minute's drive
brought him to the gate. A corporal shone a torch at his ID, then on
his face, blinding him for a moment. Then the man stood at attention.

"Mr Bodie? Lieutenant Scott."

Another man came forward, uniform crisp in the harsh lights. He wore
no greatcoat as though he wasn't expecting to be outdoors for long.

"Mr Bodie? Major Cowley asked me to meet you. If I may get in your
vehicle, I can direct you through the camp."

"Sure." Bodie shrugged and waited for the man to get in. Then the
gates opened and he drove through, pausing for each speed trap. He
had to be careful with those; the Capri had a habit of going airborne
if he wasn't.

With Scott's instructions, he drove through the quiet camp, already
bunked down for the night. His credentials were checked twice more
before Scott pointed out where he could park beneath a weak lamp
stuck out from the side of a bleak-looking building. He turned the
engine off to hear two helicopters fly low overhead. He got out and
watched them disappear, navigation lights blinking, reminding him of
years passed, of friends long gone.

"Mr Bodie?" Scott interrupted his thoughts. "Major Cowley is this
way."

"Cowley's here?" Bodie frowned, turning.

"Yes, sir. He's expecting you. I'll take you in."

Shaking his head, but unable to care one way or the other, Bodie
followed the man into the building and along a semi-darkened
corridor. A short flight of stairs and then another turn and only
then did Bodie notice the smell. This was the base hospital.

Dread suddenly seized him and it was all he could do to force his
feet to keep moving.

No, Cowley would have warned him if a body had been found. He would
have heard about it before now. No, he calmed himself, this was just
another job. No need to panic.

By the time he reached the end of the corridor, he was back under
control. Scott pushed aside a double door and let him go through
alone. Cowley was at the other end of another corridor and Bodie
walked straight down, only slowing when he realized the Old Man was
watching him with sombre eyes.

Now the panic came back full force and now there wasn't any
rationalisation he could latch onto for support. He stopped some feet
away from Cowley and the door he stood beside. Tiny noises reached
him from the rest of the hospital but they were subdued, along with
the lighting. Bodie was glad it was dim; he didn't want Cowley to see
the fear in his eyes.

"They found him, Bodie." Cowley's voice was gravel. "He's in there."

"No." The word came out from his gut, forced and riding on a wave of
adrenalin. "I don't want to see him." Not now. He'd be cold and blue
and frozen and… rotting. After three weeks? No. Not now.

Something about Cowley's eyes might have softened - but it was
probably more a trick of the light. "Go in, Bodie. That's an order."

When Bodie began to shake his head, Cowley added, "He's expecting
you."

"He's expecting…" Bodie's voice trailed off as his mind screamed to a
halt, emptied completely of all thought, all fear, everything. Time
came to an end there, and faded into nothing. He waited, suspended
between moments.

And then time began once more and he took in a deep, desperate
breath. His mouth barely moving, he murmured, "He's… alive?"

Cowley lifted a hand, "See for yourself."

In a flash, Bodie was at the door, pushing it open, striding inside
to see a bed surrounded by equipment, bright lights everywhere, some
flashing, others steady, coloured and plain. Beeping split the
silence with a Morse code only the doctors could read. Bodie ignored
it all.

He stopped feet from the bed and looked down. It was not a pretty
sight - but it was Doyle - and therefore, by definition, the most
beautiful sight he had ever beheld.

*Jesus Christ!*

He reached out a shaking hand to steady himself against the back of a
chair. The movement brought Doyle's eyes open and he turned his head,
deep green gaze locking on Bodie's.

He was alive - though injured. Patches on his thin face were red,
smeared with some sort of grease. Both hands were bound up, an IV
line leading from his left arm. A support frame sat over his right
foot while the left was suspended in traction. Every breath Doyle
took was laboured and matched by a beeping machine - but the eyes
that gazed steadily at him were the same sea green he knew so well.

Alive. Somehow alive.

Bodie gripped the chair hard and forced himself to speak. "Ray? How
do you feel?"

A slow blink warned Bodie of drugs they must have given him. Doyle
swallowed and ran his tongue over his cracked lips before replying.
"Felt better. You?"

"Fine. Just fine." Bodie replied, feeling nothing of the kind - and
exactly that - both at the same time. Half his brain seemed to have
gone to sleep while the other half was dancing a jig to the whistling
of a madman located somewhere near his right temple. Any second now
the overload would cause a short to the system and he'd either start
babbling or laughing with uncontrolled hysteria.

He felt a presence at his side and turned to see Cowley.

"Come, lad. Leave him be for a bit. He's doped to the eyeballs. He'll
make more sense in the morning."

A hand on Bodie's arm urged him away. Doyle gave him the slightest
nod and Bodie gave in. Outside in the corridor and Bodie was ready
with questions - but Cowley held up a hand for quiet and led him down
to another door. Inside were more bright lights, tables and lounge
chairs. Coffee-making things and a machine which sold evil-looking
sandwiches.

Hospital food was the same, in or out of the army.

Cowley immediately began making them cups of coffee but Bodie was
beyond anything so normal. It was almost impossible for him to stand
still. "What happened?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Cowley allowed himself a smile,
"Something of a miracle, I should imagine. They found one of the
other men with Doyle. The last is still missing. His chances of
survival are slim - especially after what Doyle's been through."

Bodie sank into the nearest chair, his eyes wide and staring. *Ray
was alive*. Really alive! In a room only a few yards away. He had to
be dreaming.

Coffee appeared on the table before him and Cowley sat opposite.
Bodie took a mouthful, ran his hands over his face in the hope it
would wake him from his daze, then gazed steadily at the Old Man.

"You bastard! Why didn't you say anything?"

A snort of displeasure escaped the Controller - but he chose not to
respond to the epithet and instead answered the question. "I didn't
want to say anything until I'd seen him myself. Both men were
unconscious when they were found and neither had ID. On top of that,
they were both close to death. I didn't want to get your hopes up
until I was sure. Until I'd seen him myself."

"And?"

Cowley developed half a smile and took a sip of coffee, "And having
had to endure the look on your face when I told you Doyle was dead, I
felt I'd earned the right to see you when you discovered he was
alive."

Bodie coughed - and then began to laugh. Not loud or long, but a
laugh nonetheless. The first for more than three weeks. "Tell me what
happened."

"I don't have all the details as yet but as far as I can tell, Doyle
and the other man were buried by the avalanche but due to the fall of
the ground, they ended up in a pocket of space between two boulders.
The other man was knocked out but Doyle was conscious the whole time.
He was injured and couldn't move too much but managed to create a
space around them and prevented them suffocating in the first few
minutes. Doyle found a ski in the space with them and used it to make
an air hole in the snow above. Chances are, if the weather hadn't
closed in when it did, Search and Rescue would have found them fairly
quickly. Doyle believes he slept and woke when he heard the wind. It
took him hours to dig a way out to the top - about fifteen feet as
far as I can tell. Then he got the other man out. By that time, it
was night and he made a kind of igloo to keep them warm. When he
woke, it was snowing again, but it cleared in patches, giving him
seconds to orient himself. The other man was conscious only in
snatches so Doyle, with the map only in his head, struck out for the
bothy, dragging man behind him." Cowley sat forward, his voice low,
"S and R say the distance was something like five miles, the snow on
average four foot deep. How Doyle made it, we'll never know - but he
did. It took him more than a day."

"But…" Bodie paused, calculating. "That's still two and a half weeks.
Were they stuck in the hut all that time?"

"No." Cowley smiled and shook his head in amazement. "For ten days
only. Until Doyle realized his friend, Russell needed serious medical
treatment and the supplies were about to run out. The hut had a radio
but the ariel had broken in the blizzard and Doyle couldn't fix it.
So, he made a sled, wrapped up his friend, packed as much food as he
could - and set out for the nearest town."

"Good god!"

"It took him five days. He says he got lost more times than he could
count because every time he got his bearings, another blizzard would
come down and obscure his landmarks. He lost his map on the second
day. On the third, he fell badly and knocked himself unconscious. He
woke up to find his friend screaming his name. By sunset on day five,
they'd both collapsed from exhaustion and hypothermia - but
fortunately close enough to a town for somebody to see them. The
weather closed in again that night but by morning it had cleared
enough to get a helicopter to them - Army was the closest. They were
taken to hospital. Doyle was flown down here this evening."

Bodie sat back in his seat, letting out a great whoosh of air in the
process. He wanted to get up and jump around a little, let off some
energy, remember that he was still alive and that -

Jesus!

He needed to do something. But what?

"There's just the one small problem, Bodie." Cowley drained his
coffee cup and came to his feet. "The Doctor's aren't sure when it
happened but er… Doyle appears to have some serious gaps in his
memory."

Bodie looked up with a frown, "What do you mean, serious gaps?"

"Well, that was part of why it was hard to identify him in the
beginning - he couldn't remember his name. They had to wait until his
friend regained consciousness to tell them. He can recount vivid
details of the avalanche, some of the day before that, he knows he
was born in Derby and once prompted, he remembered he worked for
CI5."

"But?"

"The rest is a blank."

Bodie pursed his lips in something between a grimace and a smile.
"But he will remember, won't he? When he's recovered a little?"

"The doctors believe so. Most of it, eventually. Perhaps all." Cowley
put his cup back on the bench in a gesture that warned Bodie he
hadn't heard the worst.

Bodie got to his feet. "He doesn't remember me, does he?"

"No."

"You?"

"Yes - and Jax and Susan."

"But not me."

"No." Cowley met his gaze and nodded slowly. "Get some rest, 3.7.
I've been told you can sleep in here, if you like. I'm staying at an
hotel in the village. I'll be back in the morning. You do want to
stay here, don't you?"

"Yes sir," Bodie grinned. "I do. See you in the morning."

Shaking his head, Cowley headed for the door as Bodie made for the
nearest couch. As the door closed, Bodie flopped down - then turned
on his stomach and buried his face in layers of thick cushion. Taking
a deep breath, he let out a gut-wrenching screech of pure joy,
sinking his whole body into it.

Moments later, the door opened and Cowley stuck his head in, "Did you
say something, 3.7?"

"Er, no sir," Bodie replied a little sheepishly. "Good night sir."

"Good night, Bodie."

(end part 3)